


thursday’s quite the excursion

by vigilantejam



Series: exercise our sum control [3]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bathroom Sex, Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, Drug Use, Feminization, Kissing, M/M, Public Sex, Wall Sex, in which the author briefly wallows in their nostalgia for a specific london club night, mad lads on the town
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:08:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27941282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vigilantejam/pseuds/vigilantejam
Summary: If Dundy isn’t dancing with some slippery young thing sliding up and down on him, Chas can’t think what he’s doing. He catches sight of Graham in a shadowy and secluded booth by the wall, apparently oblivious to the rest of the room, with his mouth and hands very much occupied.
Relationships: Henry Foster Collins/Graham Gore, Thomas Hartnell/Henry T. D. Le Vesconte
Series: exercise our sum control [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2046140
Comments: 22
Kudos: 18





	1. dundy le vesconte

“I’m going to the bar,” Gorgeous yells at the same time Dundy opens his mouth to say he’s going for some air. He watches Graham weave away through the congregation and gives him up for lost, it’ll be years before he’s back. And so Dundy finds the door and the blessed relief of the cold on his own. He lights a cigarette immediately and takes a long draw, then throws his shoulders back, hips forward and makes for the arches. There’s a pop-up bar over there, without the same wide selection as inside, of course, but it will serve most of his needs. The makeshift dance floor and the people full of enough chemicals not to feel the November cold will serve the rest.

Dundy finds the poppers in his handbag, takes a quick hit off the bottle, and flings himself into the pack, relishing the feeling of bodies brushing past and pressing against his. There’s one with a sailor’s hat and the most glorious arse Dundy has seen in sometime. Surrounded, obviously. There’s another, _absolutely straight_ , whose hand glances across the loose front of Dundy’s glimmering gold palazzo pants as if it isn’t perfectly clear what’s under there. The man startles and looks up at Dundy with wide, terrified, and curious eyes. For a moment Dundy considers tossing the sailor overboard and spending his evening expanding this poor dear’s horizons. Instead he leans down to purr at him.

“Not tonight angel, but I’m sure you’ll find the man of your dreams here somewhere.”

Dundy makes his way to the bar, and while he’s leaning against it he looks over to the sailor and his cabal, makes eye contact with what he hopes is an enigmatic smile, and looks away again. He orders one gin and tonic and one neat rum and stands back at the edge of the arches, waiting in the half shadows.

The first man to approach him is not the sailor and also not his type. The second is selling and Dundy purchases two pills with a crumpled twenty pound note and kisses a third from the man’s tongue, washing it down with a sip of gin. The third man is the sailor, with one or two others in tow. He walks right up to Dundy until they’re almost chest to chest.

“Hi,” he says, leaning up a little. He’s a head and a half shorter and the stretch down pulls pleasantly across Dundy’s shoulders. The kiss is light and tingly and when the sailor steps away Dundy sees his eyes are a little glassy. He’s beginning to feel his own going the same way. The place on his arm where the sailor is resting his hand has little waves and pulses spreading out from it, travelling up Dundy’s spine to his scalp.

“This is for you,” Dundy says.

The sailor knocks back the rum and Dundy kisses the last traces of his from his lips.

“Do you like to dance?” the sailor asks.

“I love to dance,” Dundy answers with a wicked grin and lets himself be pulled back onto the crowded dance floor.

The lights spiral and bounce from the white painted walls of the arches. The blues and pinks and greens paint over Dundy and the sailor and the people who join them. Dundy’s skin is singing now, and he pops open the buttons of his shirt to let the fabric flutter and graze over him. It has the added advantage of inviting in the sailor’s hands. Others too. He throws his head back in a laugh that he hears booming over the music and clapping around the stone although it can’t possibly be that loud. The sailor is dancing in front of him, twirling and shimmering in a whirl of shining skin and tight muscle, and when another joins him it takes Dundy a moment to realise that they are not identical, they move independently, and there really are two of them. The other one is a paler blond, and slightly bigger. _Two of them,_ Dundy thinks as he watches them grinding together, in their matching caps and booty shorts.

“Jesus absolute Christ,” he says, his head swimming.

He takes another hit of his poppers and the bottle does the rounds. He assumes it’s never coming back and it doesn’t matter because he is sandwiched between sailors. The one in front of him, _was that the original one?_ stretches up to kiss him and then firm hands on his hips turn him around and the other one, _no that’s him, that’s my sailor,_ does the same.

Dundy melts into every touch, and when insistent fingers twine around his and the sailor says “Follow me”, Dundy absolutely does.

His ears are ringing as they turn a corner and the thick Victorian masonry mutes most of the noise from the dance floor. There are people milling about, chatting and smoking, and the sailor tugs Dundy past them all, under the empty arch and up against bare stone. He’s halfway to his knees when the sailor catches his chin.

“I think I’d like to fuck you,” he says.

“I think I’d like you to,” Dundy replies, his voice rasping with arousal. He pushes his bag into the sailor’s arms. “Everything you need in there.”

“I brung a fucking condom to the club, I’m not new,” the sailor laughs, although Dundy can’t see a single place in his tight outfit where he might be hiding one.

“Suit yourself, darling,” Dundy says and takes his bag back only to sling it against the wall by his feet. “Come here.”

The sailor steps forward with a smirk and pushes his thigh between Dundy’s legs and grinds against him. His hands run up under Dundy’s open shirt, over his ribs, and then down his back and under the waistband of his trousers. He grabs a handful of Dundy’s arse and dips a finger in between the cheeks.

“No knickers?” he says and Dundy replies only with an arched eyebrow and a sly smile that falls open in a moaning sigh as the sailor traces a circle over his hole. Dundy clenches around his finger and presses his leg rougher against the sailor’s hard-on. He grunts in return and crowds Dundy back against the wall.

“Hey, you smell nice,” he says, lips pressing a smile against the hair of Dundy’s chest, his tongue darting out over a nipple.

“Thank you very much,” Dundy laughs, rubbing his hand up over the back of the sailor’s buzzed short hair. “One does try.”

The sailor lifts a hand to his mouth and makes a show of wetting and coating two fingers before reaching back to Dundy’s arse and pushing in with warm slickness. Dundy breathes heavy and satisfied and holds on tighter around the sailor’s neck.

“Fuck yes,” he says, all gravel and hot breath. It’s not deep and it’s not enough. “More.”

The sailor adds the second finger, moves and stretches as much as he can at this angle. He’s looking up at Dundy through pale lashes and chewing on his bottom lip as he grinds the tight bulge in his shorts against Dundy’s thigh. Dundy rocks his hips between the sailor’s fingers and his cock. The slippery gold of his trousers slides deliciously over this skin.

“Can’t wait to get inside you,” the sailor says. “Feel this tight little snatch on my dick.”

 _Oh, that’s the game_ , Dundy thinks.

“Why wait? She’s so ready for you.”

He shoves the sailor back and turns around with a little wiggle as he pulls his trousers down over his arse. He hears the tear of the condom wrapper and closes his eyes when his cock comes to rest along the line between his cheeks, sliding back and forth slowly. The sailor gives his arse a firm smack and Dundy looks over his shoulder with a grin to give a pornographic moan.

“Pretty princess,” the sailor growls. “Going to enjoy this.”

His cock pushes in through Dundy’s rim in one move. It’s a tight fit and it hurts just the right amount, and Dundy feels himself stretch and adjust to accommodate the girth.

“Yes baby, give it to me,” he says, head bowed between his arms, and the sailor pushes deeper.

Dundy feels a hot gob of spit land at the top of his crack and seep down to his hole. There are more wet sounds and the sailor’s hand wraps slick around his dick, strokes and slides while he draws back and then fucks in again, every time making ground until it’s easy. Dundy grunts and arches and rocks back into the next thrust, cries out when the sailor’s hips meet his arse. There’s a soothing hand on his back.

“Was watching you all night waiting for that dick. Dancing and grinding up on me,” Dundy says. “Knew you were going to give it to me good.”

“You want it hard, beautiful?” the sailor pants, gripping tighter on his waist. He picks up the pace and Dundy feels so full, so hot and alive, but he wants more. He’s always chasing more.

“Harder. Fuck. Fuck me up in this dirty fucking alley, sailor boy, like you want to.”

Sailor grunts and snaps his hips forward. Dundy hears his boots scuffing the ground and then he’s pounding harder, driving deep and fuck yes hitting just right. Dundy can feel it in his throat.

“Yes, baby, like that. That’s good, that’s _good,_ ” he groans.

The rhythmic slaps of skin on skin and the sailor’s rough breaths echo in the cool air and Dundy feels it singing in his veins. He braces his arms against the rough stone and pushes back greedily on the sailor’s dick.

“Oh shit, oh shit,” the sailor starts stammering and Dundy clenches his arse down around him. “ _Fuck,_ fuck yes.”

The sailor comes with a shuddering cry and his fingers digging into Dundy’s hips. He rests pressed against Dundy’s back for a moment, then he eases back and pulls out, and the loss makes Dundy’s stomach drop. Dundy turns around as the sailor tosses the condom off to the side, no doubt joining a collection of others in the shadows.

“Hey, come here,” the sailor says, already sliding down, and gets his whole mouth around Dundy’s cock.

He takes him down to his throat easily and Dundy’s so close it only takes a little suction, one or two bobs of his head, his fingers slipping between Dundy’s legs and finding his loose hole and Dundy’s murmuring, “Oh fuck that’s _it,_ baby”, and holding the sailor by the back of his neck as he comes into his mouth and over his lips and chin.

The sailor turns his head and spits the load into the gutter, and wipes his mouth with a wet smack. Dundy drops his shoulders back against the wall and tugs the waistband of his trousers back over his hips while the sailor stays in his squat, half leaning against Dundy’s leg. He snaps his fingers and points and the sailor passes his bag up to him. He finds his packet of cigarettes and lights two, holding one out to the sailor.

“No, thanks.”

“No thanks, he says,” Dundy tuts and clamps both cigarettes between his lips.

He puffs on them simultaneously, while the sailor just stares at him, and feels around again in his bag. He locates the pack of wet wipes and tugs out a sheet, stuffs his hand down his pants and gives himself the once over. He holds out the packet to the sailor who once again looks at him like he’s mad and then shrugs and stands, accepting the offer. Dundy smokes his cigarettes and watches the sailor wipe his face then pop the button fly of his shorts again, barely able to fit his hand in there, and toss the napkin the same way as the condom.

“You carry wet wipes.”

“I don’t like mess,” Dundy says, pushing himself upright again.

“And yet,” the sailor says, gesturing around them.

“And yet I _love_ to get fucked quick and dirty in messy places,” Dundy says, narrowing his eyes and lowering his voice. He steps up close to the sailor and palms over his dick.

“Jesus,” the sailor jumps.

“Only if you promise me a second coming,” Dundy leers, stroking again.

The sailor chuckles and pulls Dundy’s shirt back into place, starts doing up the buttons.

“I don’t think I could manage again so soon, but if you’re hanging around I’ll see what I can do.”

“Wonderful,” Dundy says.

They walk back towards the music together and the sailor’s hand creeps under Dundy’s shirt to the small of his back.

“You’re shivering.”

“It’s the middle of winter.”

The sailor snorts and flattens his palm down over Dundy’s arse. “Poor princess.”

The group who had been dancing together are now gathered around a table full of empty glasses and the sailor strides over. Dundy hangs back, his eyes moving over the crowd for a sign of Gorgeous and Chas. They’re not outside that he can see, finding their own entertainment in the warm no doubt. He can hardly blame them. He leans on the window ledge by the pub door and checks his phone. A bunch of notifications, amongst them _‘Where the fuck are you?’_ from Chas, which he ignores. He puts his phone away when the sailor returns to him, a military jacket slung over his arm.

“Here you go,” he says with a teasing smile and stretches onto his toes. Dundy obliges by bending to let him drape the coat around his shoulders.

“How gallant, thank you.”

“Are you with anyone?”

“A few friends.”

“Ditch them. The lads are going over to the Swan and you’re joining us,” the sailor says tugging on the hems of the jacket. “Or I could stay here.”

“I think I fancy the adventure,” Dundy says, after briefly considering his options.

“Perfect,” the sailor smiles.

“I’ll catch you up.”

“You better,” the sailor says and Dundy watches him walk away.


	2. graham gorgeous

Graham takes a long gulp of his pint and wipes away the foam from his lip. It had taken him a moment to notice that Dundy hadn’t followed him, but he wasn’t surprised. There are more than enough distractions here to waylay him. Most people are turned towards the stage. Three queens are doing a comedy dance routine dressed as 1950s housewives. Curlers in and garters down. Graham smiles and moves back from the bar, giving space to the people squashed around waiting to be served. His elbow knocks against someone and he almost loses half a pint out of his sloshing glass.

“Oh no, sorry,” he says as he wheels around and a hand catches the same elbow.

“My fault, I shouldn’t- hi.”

Graham notices his hair first. Dark curls that fall attractively over his brow, and a short cropped beard with a charming amount of salt in with the pepper. He notices all the leather second.

“Can I replace that?” the man asks.

“Oh no, I hardly lost any at all, don’t worry about it.”

“The next one then.” A smile, soft eyes.

_Oh._

Graham raises his glass to his lips and opens his throat to the beer, and the man watches him down the whole pint with an amused smile. Graham resists the urge to turn the empty pint glass upside down over his head.

“Same again?” the man laughs.

“Please,” Graham grins back.

They rejoin the crowd at the bar, chattering bodies pressed close around them, and Graham raises his voice to introduce himself.

“I’m Graham.”

“Henry.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh no?”

“My friend,” Graham stretches to look around but can’t see any sign of Dundy. “I don’t know where he’s got to just now but you can’t miss him, he’s eleven feet tall and dressed like a Hampton Court topiary. _His_ name is Henry.”

“And there couldn’t possibly be more than one.”

“Of course not.”

“Well then I suppose you can call me whatever you want.” Henry’s voice is low and lilting and playful and his eyes dance.

“Oh, fuck off,” Graham laughs off the joke and then looks at Henry with more consideration, thinks of some of the things he might _like_ to call him, and feels some colour rise in his cheeks. He runs his tongue over his bottom lip, follows it with his teeth and says again, “Fuck right off.”

Henry leans into him and laughs and it’s like the thrum of a motorcycle. “I don’t think I will, actually.”

Graham lets his eyes travel over the broad chest, bare but for the harness and the vest with more hardware attached to it. He runs his hand over the smooth leather.

“I suppose we’ll make do then, Henry,” he says.

Someone jostles Graham from behind and he’s almost flung into Henry’s arms.

“Sorry, don’t know me own strength,” comes the apology in broad Manchester, and it switches from friendly to friendlier when the stranger recognises Graham.

“Graham Gorgeous! Are you up tonight?” The man waves in the direction of the stage. “It’s been forever.”

Graham gestures at his body. He’s wearing clothes that he would call normal, Chas would call boring, and Dundy would call abhorrent. Which is to say he’s wearing nice jeans and a plain shirt that cost less than a hundred and fifty quid. It’s hardly a performance outfit.

“Not tonight,” he says politely and then turns away from the stranger and back to Henry.

Henry’s eyebrows, thick and dark and expressive, are raised in question.

“Graham Gorgeous?” he says with a broad smile.

“It’s a stage name,” Graham says, rolling his eyes a little. “Obviously.”

“And you what, perform _here?”_ Henry asks, looking from Graham to the lavish and flamboyant crowd.

“Oi!” Graham laughs. “Not anymore.”

“Insisted on getting a proper job,” Weekes says on the other side of the bar. Oh, they have reached the front of the queue and Graham is about to be heckled. “Something about getting his tits out for tips from these cheap bastards not being financially sustaining. Still got the legs for it, mind. Graces us with his presence for the throwback nights.”

“Thank you, Johnny,” Graham says, and can feel his ears going red.

“I’ll have to keep an eye on the listings,” Henry says, sliding his eyes down Graham’s body. “Wouldn’t want to miss out again.”

“What will it be, gentlemen?” Weekes bellows.

Graham lets Henry order the round and he knows what the next words out of Weekes’ mouth will be.

“Free to the very handsome friend of a friend,” he says without charging for the beers.

Henry raises his pint in thanks and hands over Graham’s drink.

“Come on,” Graham says. He leads the way through the crowd to the booths at the back. It’s busy but the dance floor is full and there’s a spare seat right in Graham’s favourite spot. He slides along the cushion and beckons Henry to join him. He’s barely set his pint on the table when Henry’s hand is on his thigh, low enough to still have the illusion of propriety, if not the intent.

“You knew he wouldn’t charge me,” Henry leans in close to be heard over the music and laughter.

“Yes.”

“You didn’t say anything.”

“I don’t like to make assumptions,” Graham says and Henry smirks as he squeezes lightly above Graham’s knee.

“Is that right?”

“Anyway, he would have made me pay, so you did your bit,” he laughs. “Friends don’t get freebies, only _handsome_ friends of friends. Cheers.”

There’s a pause while they clink their glasses together and take a drink, then Graham nods his head up at the wall behind them.

“There you go,” he says. Like half the walls in the club, it is covered with framed photographs of debaucheries past. Old acts, noted regulars, the occasional celebrity patron. He points at the picture directly above their heads and Henry twists round to look. “That’s the other Henry, and that’s James.”

The photograph is of the three of them, close-up on their grinning faces. James of course has an impeccable fingerwave and strings of pearls around his neck, his satin slip barely visible in the frame of the picture for being both tiny and only a touch darker than his pale skin. He’s smiling so hard his eyes have practically vanished. His make-up is immaculate apart from the lipstick, at one time neat enough to print a perfect cupid’s bow on Graham’s cheek, it is now kiss-smeared and smudged in the same shade that stains Dundy’s mouth. Immediately next to that is a picture of Graham Gorgeous on stage. He’s in the middle of the performance, in the triangle of a white spotlight. The shirt and stays are gone, his braces swing loose around his thighs, which are clad in tight military green breeches. He has one foot up on a vintage wooden chair, the other leg stretched way out behind him, smooth calves down to ‘Louboutin’ heels that were actually M&S done up with some red paint. Red tassle pasties over his nipples, arched back, and difficult to see from this angle, but his face done up in clown white with his features carved out in black eyeliner. It might be his favourite photo of himself.

“And that’s me.”

“Wow,” Henry says, and slides his hand up Graham’s thigh a little more. “Bit of a fixture here then, are you?”

“Not so much anymore, not since we grew up,” Graham chuckles and cranes back to look at the picture of Dundy again. “Some of us, anyway.”

Henry’s tongue skims over his lower lip and he smiles at Graham, warm and wanting. “Would it be too much to say I like you just like this?”

“It would not,” Graham says and he’s already leaning in.

Henry kisses like a dream, and Graham would know because he’s sure he’s dreaming. Henry’s hand rests weighty and grounding on his leg, only squeezing a little when Graham opens his mouth to tongue softly at Henry’s lips. Henry hums pleasantly against him and lets him in. Graham cups his hand around Henry’s jaw and steers and deepens the kiss, thrilling at how Henry responds immediately, eagerly.

“Fucking hell, you’re beautiful,” Graham says breathlessly, breaking off from the kiss and pressing his forehead to Henry’s.

Henry’s vest has a row of silver rings across the front of his shoulder and Graham threads a finger into each one. It feels nice and leaves his palm pressed flat over Henry’s heart. He closes his fist and the soft leather bunches up in his hand. It feels really _really_ nice.

Henry’s smiling indulgently at him and when he kisses him again Graham holds him tight by the vest. He kisses across Henry’s jaw, his beard scratching pleasantly at his lips, and down his neck.

“Yes, love,” Henry sighs as he nibbles just a bit on his soft skin.

He ducks further down and Henry’s hand comes to rest on his shoulder, massaging fingers against his spine.

Henry’s chest is barrel-shaped and hairy and Graham pulls back on the rings to move the vest out of his way. The harness has wide straps that sit perfectly flush to Henry’s body and smell warm and inviting. Graham kisses the leather as much as he kisses Henry’s skin. His eyes glance over the dark nipple sticking out at him, but he moves back up to Henry’s face, chases more of his mouth. Henry opens to him again and his tongue slides and presses wet against Graham’s and it’s so perfect it makes him dizzy. Graham shifts on the bench to get closer and Henry’s hand edges up his leg again, and settles cupped over Graham’s dick and Graham can’t help but shift up into the light touch until it becomes more. He deepens the kiss, tightens his grip on Henry’s vest, feels the heat building between them. _God._ He doesn’t want it to end, but there is something of a dilemma arising in his jeans. The make-out session is one thing, a sublimely wonderful thing, but he’s not about to deal with _that_ in public. He moans into Henry’s mouth and pulls back and kisses across his cheek instead. Henry retreats back to his thigh with a light squeeze.

“I want you to take me home,” Henry hums against his temple while Graham tries to collect himself.

“God, I’d love nothing more, really,” Graham says, barely able to manage anything above a whisper.

“But.”

“But. Sorry to be the world’s most boring man. I’ve got an early start.”

“Another time, maybe?” Henry asks

“Absolutely.”

Graham shuffles to get his hand in his back pocket and pulls out his phone. He swipes to get to contacts and hands it over.

“I promise I’ll call,” he says.

“Very reassuring,” Henry says.

“And when I get home,” Graham continues, winding a finger into Henry’s hair while he taps away on his phone. “All on my lonesome. I’ll send you something, to let you know I’m safe and tucked up.”

Henry arches an eyebrow at him. “That’s two promises you just made.”

He hands the phone back and Graham looks at the screen. _Henry Foster Collins._

“Not a stage name,” Henry says with a smirk.

Graham presses the green dial button and holds up the phone for Henry to see it connect. There is a vibration in one of the pockets of his vest.

“A man of my word,” Graham says, and Henry swats him lightly. “Now. Where were we?”

“About here I think,” Henry whispers, his lips just a breath away, and Graham kisses him again.


	3. chas f des voeux, mate

In the bathroom the thrum of bass is inescapable, and every couple of minutes the door swings open and a draught of shrieking and singing blows through. Chas is about as sick of it as he is of receiving the world’s most mediocre blow job. It’s fumbling and formless and there’s nothing to get a grip on, to keep his mind from wandering. He grabs a fistful of the man’s hair and thrusts into his mouth. The man, he didn’t catch a name, gags and spits him out and even his failure and discomfort is unsatisfying. He has pretty eyelashes, Chas had noticed when they fluttered at him in proposition, and the lack of any talent to back them up is vexing. He goes back to his incompetent work and Chas sighs and pulls his phone out of his pocket. 

He texts Dundy first. _Where the fuck are you?_ Then he scrolls over the group chat to see if there are any clues there. Nothing. His eyes catch on Stanley’s messages. All short and pointed of course, no pics or dirty talk to occupy his thoughts. Chas thinks he can do one better though. Over the sloppy smacking of the man’s mouth around his dick, he calls the doctor.

“Are you in town?” Chas says into the familiar quiet that always follows Stanley picking up. He never makes a sound until he knows what Chas wants, until he gets a read on what sort of mood he’s in. Then it’s either a slow reciprocation, or the click and silence of a deadened line. Still there’s nothing. He waits, thinks maybe he can hear breathing.

“I know it’s a school night,” he pushes on, looking down at the head bobbing back and forth ineffectually on his dick. “But I’ve got an itch I can’t scratch.”

“Where?” Stanley replies with nothing but an inscrutable monosyllable.

“I was being figurative.”

“Where. Are. You.” He sounds more impatient now, the clipped words followed by a sigh. Chas smiles, _yes that will do nicely._

“Vauxhall.”

Stanley makes a noise like he got the information but isn’t committed to doing anything about it.

“I’ll see you in a bit,” Chas chances, lowering and softening his voice as seductively as he can, then hangs up.

“It’s gone soft,” says the man at Chas’ feet, rocking back on his heels and dragging his hand across his mouth. He doesn’t even look pathetic, just endlessly dull.

“Whose fault is that?” Chas pouts and steps over him, tucks himself in and zips up his flies.

Chas exits the bathroom with a spring in his step, ignoring the exasperated call of _“Seriously?”_ that follows him out. He passes someone in the doorway and thinks about warning them off the sad puddle lurking on the stall floor, but decides to let them make that discovery on their own.

His good mood is soured by being unable to find anyone he knows within a matter of seconds. The problem with this fucking place is it’s very difficult to spot your tall and garish friend when literally everyone else is in some combination of gold lamé, hot pink feathers, seven-inch heels, and glitter. Chas, sans heels thank you very much, stretches up onto his toes and scans the faces for improbably-sized sideburns. That at least might work in his favour.

He weaves through the crowd of people on the dance floor. The live performances are on a break and everyone is twirling to seventies disco, and more than half are lip-synching perfectly. He wriggles out of the range of boas and hip bumps, sneers and dodges around a man with predatory eyes and a neatly trimmed moustache, and makes it to the bar relatively unscathed. If Dundy isn’t dancing with some slippery young thing sliding up and down on him, Chas can’t think what he’s doing. He catches sight of Graham in a shadowy and secluded booth by the wall, apparently oblivious to the rest of the room, with his mouth and hands all over some hairy leatherman.

The attention of the bartender falls on him and Chas orders two shots of sambuca and pours himself a pint of ice water from the jug on the bar while he waits. The flimsy plastic cup sweats with condensation immediately and feels unreliable and insubstantial in his hands. His booze arrives and he pays for it with a tap of his phone. He throws one of the shots down his throat and takes the other and his water with him as he side-steps and slips past more of the crowd to the door.

He eventually finds Dundy outside, his bright peacock green paisley covered by a dark navy jacket draped over his shoulders. Chas eyes the cuffs and raises an eyebrow.

“Lieutenant,” he says, handing over the shot glass then snapping a salute.

“He’s over there,” Dundy says, accepting and downing the drink with one hand and with the other waving his cigarette in the direction of the tables. There’s a large group, and two sailor caps, but Chas follows Dundy’s gaze directly to the one with his back to them, his arse squeezed into tight and tiny navy shorts. Chas tracks the line of his legs down to heavy jackboots.

“Very nice,” he hums into his water before the sailor turns around and almost sends it spraying out of his nose. “Tom Hartnell?”

“What?”

“ _Tom Hartnell,_ the boy you fucked on Fitz’s fucking roof terrace or whatever. Last New Year’s? One before?”

“No, that was Christmas,” Dundy says quickly. “He wouldn’t let us up there on New Year’s _because_ of Christmas. What about him?”

“ _That’s_ Tom Hartnell.”

“No it isn’t.”

“It absolutely is, you terrible bastard,” Chas raves, waving his hands over to the crowd.

Dundy narrows his eyes at his quarry. Chas sees the realisation dawn on his face as quickly as he tries to cover it. He crows triumphantly and dances out of the range of the half-hearted kick Dundy aims at his shins.

“What are you doing remembering who the fuck he is, anyway?” Dundy deflects.

“I retain every lurid detail you ever tell me for when I’m inevitably called upon by the courts.” Chas winks, and while Dundy is distracted he plucks the cigarette from his fingers and takes a drag.

“He’s changed,” Dundy says with an affected shrug.

“Not that much,” Chas says through his teeth as he inhales and passes the cigarette back.

“He’s… bigger.”

“I’ll say.”

“Hands off,” Dundy scoffs immediately.

“Oh, I’m sorry I didn’t know,” Chas says, eyes wide and raising his hands in surrender. “Will it be a June wedding?”

“Who can say? Perhaps his mother will never approve.”

“Never approve of _you?_ But you’re a catch, darling,” Chas gulps the last of his water and balances the empty cup on the window ledge beside the growing collection of bottles and glasses. “Extremely charming, tall, handsome. And never forgets a fuck, I’ve heard.”

Dundy sighs dramatic resignation. Inside the music dies down and a hush falls as a piano starts up.

“I’m going home,” Chas announces.

Graham appears out of the throng, apparently summoned by the prospect of an early night. Chas makes a mental note to get him a tartan blanket for his knees for Christmas.

“Share a cab?” Graham says, covering a yawn with one arm while he stretches the other over his head.

“I’ve got the car, love,” Chas replies, and does a terrible job at hiding the smug grin he is in fact not trying to hide at all.

“Oh, the _car,_ ” Dundy says in an exaggerated drawl as he and Graham both roll their eyes.

“You tart,” Graham says, putting a bit too much weight into bumping against Chas’ shoulder. “Walk me to the taxi rank, at least?”

“Excuse me, don’t think I didn’t see you practically sitting in that lovely big bear’s lap, Gorgeous. Looked like you were on to a promise. I assume he _was_ lovely?”

“He said he wanted me to take him home,” Graham smiles and ducks his head.

“Oh my god,” Chas groans. “Trust you to find someone nice and wholesome in this pit of degenerates.”

Chas looks expectantly at Dundy, who looks blankly back, apparently with nothing to say in his defense. Instead he shrugs and his eyes lift again past Chas and towards the shapely arse of Tom fucking Hartnell. Chas sighs in exasperation.

“Your _purse,_ Henry,” he says, pawing at Dundy’s arms. “It contains my belongings.”

“Oh yes, sorry,” Dundy tears his gaze from the meat market and rummages in the handbag swinging at his elbow. He retrieves Chas’ keys and wallet and hands them over. “Have a wonderful evening.”

“Sorry to run out on you,” Graham says.

“Don’t worry about me, darling,” Dundy says with mock haughtiness. “I’ve had rather a better offer.”

He plants an air kiss with a solid side of mutton chop against each of Chas’ cheeks and then Graham’s and shoos them off down the street.

They’ve barely rounded the corner, heading for the tube station taxi rank when Graham wraps a big arm around Chas’ neck and starts roughhousing.

“Do I get to meet him, then?”

“You do _not,_ ” Chas says, laughing and failing to squirm out of the grip. “You can look at him, from very far away. I only let you come along because you have some fucking manners and won’t actually try to get in the car.”

The words leave his mouth and he’s instantly struck with the image of Stanley trying to wrestle Dundy out of the back seat. It’s too much, and Chas collapses in giggles against Graham’s side.

“Oh, you _let_ me come, did you?” Graham teases.

He adjusts his grip and lifts Chas clear off his feet, and they half fall sideways when Graham drops him again almost immediately. Chas grabs and pulls on Graham’s shirt as he stumbles, and it makes them both look a lot more disheveled.

“Bet he doesn’t like you all roughed up by someone else,” Graham says, rubbing his knuckles against Chas’ skull and making his hair stick out.

“Probably not,” Chas laughs, batting him away. “Couldn’t hurt to let him see it though. Or rather, it _could_ hurt. Quite a lot, hopefully.”

His face splits into a dirty grin and he waggles his eyebrows, causing Graham to laugh and drag him closer again. “You’re a sick puppy, Des Voeux.”

Graham deliberately gets his feet between Chas’ and they turn a corner to the next street almost tumbling over each other and Chas sees Stanley standing there, leaning on his car with only a slight air of cool impatience.

“Put him down,” Stanley says. His voice is just loud enough to carry the distance between them, and contains just enough threat to catch Chas’ breath.

“Oh, _okay,_ ” Chas hears Graham whisper, followed by a low chuckle.

Chas untangles himself and punches Graham light on the arm. He puts some swagger in his step and turns for one last smirk over his shoulder as he heads towards the car.

“Goodnight, Gorgeous.”

**Author's Note:**

> remember clubs? god, i miss the [rvt](https://www.vauxhalltavern.com/). thanks for indulging me! x


End file.
